Long Division

by Jane Berentson

  “Yes to blanket,” I say, and I thrust a fist into the air. “And yes to replaying the ending!”

  Gus tosses the flannel throw over me like it’s a picnic blanket and I’m a shady patch of grass. He tucks the blanket’s edge under my toes and I try to will his hands into touching my feet for longer. Extended tender hand/foot contact. Does that count as infidelity? Surely David has other soldiers—maybe even Jayna Austin—rub down his tired hooves? Do their hands not linger? But Gus’s hands shy away and he asks, “What do you last remember?”

  “The rubber vagina!”

  “Rubber vagina, here we come!”

  As I drive home, I feel very peaceful. Maybe it was the mini nap or the salty/sweet combo of the guac and lemonade. I’ve fallen asleep midway through at least eighty-nine movies in the company of at least fourteen different friends and family members. When the credits roll and my companions rustle about or nudge me or change the channel to barking late-night talk shows, I usually emerge from my drooling pose and receive some playful chastisement for konking out and missing this kissy part or that car exploding. Some people get offended—how could you pass out with that beautiful scenery? Others are more aloof—well, it’s your loss, Annie. But no one has ever offered to rewatch the end with me. Right then. Maybe everyone thinks I’ll just fall back asleep again and that a second chance would be totally futile. But to Gus it seemed like perfect logic. And to me it seemed like perfect logic. And ultimately, it was perfectly successful. I saw the end. I enjoyed it. It was great to be given that chance.

  24

  Today I’m calling my book Between a War and a Window, and by window I mean those tiny round airplane windows where the glass is so thick you can’t even see your reflection. And I mean the window of the Dairy DeLite that Gus paints for every holiday. And I mean the window above my kitchen sink where I used to stare fondly at Helen. And I mean the windows of my classroom where we taped up a million snowflakes this past winter, back when I was full of love and hope and certainty.

  I just got back from a week in Boston! It was mostly marvelous. I felt like a criminal out on bail—a temporary delay before a punishment I deserve. I didn’t have to think about David so much, and I didn’t have to feel bad for thinking about Gus from time to time. Michelle has this adorable Cambridge apartment in an area called Davis Square, which isn’t much of a square, but more of an intersection: a really great intersection with ice cream shops on three of the four corners.

  The first few days Michelle had to work, so I mostly traipsed around the city alone. My first morning, I walked the entire Freedom Trail, which is this painted red line (or sometimes section of red bricks) that zigzags around all the historical parts of Boston. The towering, gold-topped statehouse, that church where Paul Revere hung the lanterns, the site (it’s basically a median of an intersection) of the famous Boston Massacre. Though I’d been to Europe before, this trip was my first to the American East, and thus, the oldness of everything was rather overwhelming. Not simply because things are old, but because they’re still smoothly functioning. Slanty buildings that house the offices of hotshot lawyers. Ancient gravestones that still stand and that are carefully mowed around centuries after their occupants are laid to rest. There’s this big meeting house—Faneuil Hall—from the 1700s that’s now a sleek, colorful food court selling overpriced corndogs and beers. Had the revolutionaries been told their sanctuary of ideas and community would transform into a bustling strip of fast-food joints and crappy bars, they’d have guffawed their funny wigs off.

  Michelle had recommended that I explore the North End—Boston’s old Italian neighborhood—and stop somewhere for cannoli. Much of the Freedom Trail weaves in and out of the small, marinara-scented streets, so I folded up my maps and veered off the red line to wander. 139 I found a quiet café on a street that angled invitingly off one of the North End’s main drags. A college-aged kid with a tight-fitting New England Patriots T-shirt was seated behind the counter reading a book. His face was clear but had a raw redness to it that suggested a previous battle with acne and the recent application of some hard-core medicated ointment. I draped my windbreaker over a stool and plopped down. The kid stood up to lean on the espresso machine and take my order. It was one of those mega old espresso machines—thick ceramic and dense chrome—that could probably support the combined weight of the entire Patriots’ defensive line. I ordered a latte and a cannoli. After I said it, I stressed out for a second about whether or not I should have said “cannolo” or some other singular construction. But when the kid started to grind the espresso and steam the milk, the noises drowning out my insecurities, I started not to mind. This is my vacation, I thought. No one knows me. No one (save Michelle and Stephen, obviously) gives a flying fuck that I am here. I’m just another dope with a misfolded map and a neon fanny pack.140

  “Here you are,” said the kid as he placed the latte before my folded hands on the counter. I know I went to college in Seattle and am therefore supposed to be difficult to impress when it comes to coffee, but this kid was genuinely talented. In pouring the frothy milk over the espresso, he’d created a connected chain of three perfect hearts. Immediately, I blushed. Which I know was totally stupid because he was nineteen and I was wearing an ugly T-shirt from my intramural college volleyball team. I guessed he probably made latte hearts for all the crusty old men who were sitting at the tables along the windows. I was mentally trying to squeeze the blood from my cheeks when he returned with the cannolo.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said when he gently slid the ceramic plate next to the latte. “This latte is beautiful,” I added because I didn’t want him to think I was all love-struck and speechless because of the hearts and the heat in my face. I also wanted to be polite and honest.

  “Why, thanks. It only took ten years to perfect my technique.” He smiled and started scrubbing the milk residue off the hulk espresso machine’s dainty steam wand.

  “Ten years?” I flashed him the dubious look I give my students when I think they’re bending the truth during show-and-tell. Your cat had seventeen kittens, Marco? Come on.

  “Ten years.” He dragged out both syllables. Then he folded the damp rag and draped it over his shoulder. “My grandparents own the place. Put me to work when I was ten. My name’s Tyler. Nice to meet you.” He wiped his hand on his apron and extended it across the counter.

  “Oh. Nice to meet you too. I’m Annie.” His hand was sturdy and rough, simultaneously belying his age and proving his work history.

  “You visiting Boston or are you from here?”

  “Visiting.” I took a drink of my latte, careful to check my upper lip for excess foam before I spoke again. “I’m from Washington. I’m visiting a friend from school.”

  “DC?”

  “What? No. Washington, the state.” Then Tyler141 made some comment about the rain and the Seattle Mariners while I snuck in my first bite of el cannolo. It was rich and sweet, and the texture of the smooth ricotta and the crunchy pastry shell made my teeth hesitate to bite down all the way. Like there was something either very sharp or very precious inside that I should avoid. I was thinking about whether or not I had Lactaid in my purse when I realized that Tyler was asking me a question. He was asking what school I attended in Washington. He used the words “do you go to,” which means he thought I was still a student and perhaps even a student of a traditional age.142 Maybe his age. I did say I was visiting a friend from school and not an old friend from college, and I was wearing a T-shirt, and I am always carded at Tacoma bars and occasionally at rated-R movies. I nearly launched into a No, no. I’m almost twenty-five. I teach school. Ha. Ha. Ha. But then I didn’t. Tyler, despite the waxy red skin, was oddly attractive. His football T-shirt didn’t quite pin him as a jock, and his narrow black jeans could have meant anything from stage crew to hipster. He wasn’t an obvious type. He was wiry, but muscular. Dark, but not overly hairy. A pleasant bundle of dichotomies. Not who you’d pick from a lineup as someone who can pull a mean s
hot of espresso.

  “Oh. I go to the University of Washington,” I told him. How big of a lie is a gracefully shifted verb tense? Go. Went. Just a little slippery time travel. Let Tyler meet the Annie Harper of 1998. All fun. No boyfriend. No horrific cesspool of mental infidelities. Intramural volleyball fiend. Able to stomach more than one illegally acquired, artificially fruit-flavored alcoholic malt beverage! Isn’t lying about who you are a fundamental element of vacationing?

  “Cool. I go to UMass Boston. History major. What do you study?”

  “Education.” I’m surprised how easy it is to skip a few years back in my Answers to Typical Questions Asked by Strangers repertoire.

  “Right on. What do you want to teach?”

  “Elementary school. Ideally, third grade.” It was a breeze being the old me. Refreshing and light and full of hope. I was ready for anything Tyler could throw out. I wasn’t worrying about my boyfriend’s chances to die one moment, then plotting ways to break up with him the next. I was years before that, draped in a blanket of optimistic innocence.

  Tyler continued to encourage pleasant small talk and asked what I had planned for my visit. I told him about the various outings Michelle had in mind for the week. While our chat took a break so Tyler could attend to other customers, I noticed his book pressed open on the back counter. He had finished making change for a small old woman and caught me squinting to read the title of the book.

  “You want to see it?” Tyler seemed flattered that I was curious about his reading selections. He tossed me the paperback. Dark Tide: The Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919.

  “Awesome,” I said without even trying to sound nineteen. “I’ve never heard about this. A molasses flood!?” I started scanning the description on the back of the book as Tyler picked up a broom.

  “Well, you’re not the only one. Most Bostonians haven’t even heard about it. There used to be a bunch of rum distilleries around this neighborhood, and one morning a giant tank of boiling molasses exploded over two million gallons into the streets.”

  “Holy hot sugar,” I said.

  “Yeah, it was a nightmare. Twenty-one people died. And a few horses. Loads of buildings were destroyed, and it took years to clean up. The author tries to investigate whether it was a true accident or if a group of anarchists set if off on purpose. It’s a sweet book.” Tyler had stopped sweeping and bounced the broom between his hands excitedly as he spoke.

  “Ha, ha. Sweet book.” I dorkily laughed at his unintended pun and was quite charmed that he didn’t notice it.

  “Yeah. My grandfather says that down on Commercial Street on a hot day, you can still smell the molasses seeping up from the cobblestones.”

  “Wow. That’s too beautiful. But sad.” Another customer came in for coffee, and I started reading the book’s introduction. January 15, 1919. I stopped for a minute, hung up on the date. The ratification of the Eighteenth Amendment! Prohibition! I disregarded that Tyler was talking to someone else and shouted across the counter. “Oh my God, this happened on the last day before prohibition? What irony!” Tyler chuckled at my enthusiasm.

  “Sweet irony,” he said. I read for a few more minutes and realized I should probably head back to my careful Freedom Trail tiptoe. I scooted the book across the counter and thanked Tyler for the conversation and fi ne Italian refreshments. He scooted the book back.

  “Keep it,” he said. “I’ve actually already read it.”

  “No. It’s okay. You don’t—”

  “Annie. Take it. You’re going to be a great teacher.”

  Walking away from the café, I felt quite warm about my encounter with Tyler the barista. He thinks I’ll be a great teacher. I think I am a pretty good teacher. Maybe I haven’t made the best decisions (1. staying with David for so long although he makes me boring, 2. avoiding my parents this year when we could have been growing closer) in my twenty-five years, but there are a few things I did right. I chose the right trade. I was a smart, focused nineteen-year-old. I knew what I wanted exactly and I got it. Oh, what I wouldn’t give right now for a bit of that certainty.

  Several minutes later, as I was crossing this scary bridge over to the Bunker Hill Memorial, I made plans for the molasses book. Read it. Take some notes about points I’d like to remember. Give it to Gus. That night I told Michelle about Tyler and the molasses flood. I told her about giving the book to Gus and how much he’d love it.

  “What about David? Why not send it to David?” Her tone took me by surprise. Like she was challenging me to tell her everything. Like she already had her suspicions, even though I’d been so careful not to reveal the pathetic, evil-fueled agony my heart was dragging me through. And even though the real reason is that I know Gus appreciates molasses floods more than David appreciates molasses floods and it actually has nothing to do with the fact that I’m losing one and perversely hoping to gain the other, I told Michelle that passing the book to David would be futile.

  “He’ll be back so soon.” I stared at my feet. “The mail takes forever.”

  The next day I called Stephen. We’d been e-mailing before my trip. He only had one morning class that day, and we’d made a playdate to picnic at this cemetery in a neighborhood called Jamaica Plain. He had told me that it’s not like a West Coast cemetery, but more like a park and that it would be a nice respite from the crowds in downtown Boston. He met me by Michelle’s apartment in Cambridge and we took two trains and a bus to the cemetery.

  And Stephen was right. The place was gorgeous and nearly empty on a Wednesday afternoon. The terrain was hilly, and healthy, towering trees flourished along the walkways and at the crests of small hills. I thought that it was probably a very wonderful place to be a tree. Sucking nutrient-rich soil from the remains of the dead, resting a comforting bough or shadow on the shoulder of a lonely widow. These trees are not for lumber or to provide habitats for raccoon families; these are trees to console. As we first walked around in search of a perfect picnic spot, I was quiet and the cemetery was empty. Reading gravestones and the small signs that indicated the names of the alleyways between rows of plots. They’re all named after flowers and plants. Hydrangea Way or Willow Row. Quickly, it became apparent why the cemetery was so devoid of carnation-toting mourners. The tombstones—many of them elaborate marble statues and concrete mini mausoleums—were mega, super old. Wealthy merchant families from the early 1800s, local politicians from the Civil War era, and inventors and investors of serious fortunes. And for a moment it made me sad to think of the deceased and the fact that anyone who knew them closely was also deceased (likely buried just paces away) and that these bodies were just lying there, alone, with their identifying stone tags and the slight possibility that some historically minded passerby might recognize a name.

  “I wonder where Brother Alden is buried.” I said this out loud without a preamble and after minutes of complete silence.143

  “You could probably find out.” I looked over at Stephen, surprised that he understood the context of my sudden musing. I quickly understood that Gus must have filled him in about the whole crazy story. It made me happy to know that Gus was speaking of me to Stephen.

  “Yeah, I guess I could. I wasn’t allowed to search for Alden when he was alive, but what damage could I do to him know?” I imagined myself sprinting to his grave in some sunny California beach burial ground. There is no grass. It’s a sand graveyard. When I find his place, I collapse on it, wiggling my body deep into the warm sand. Closer to him. Oh, Alden, I say, and then I grab a seashell off the sand and start to make edits to his tombstone’s inscription. Where it says BELOVED SON AND FRIEND I scrape just below in ragged, straight lines: AND BROTHER.

  While I was thinking all this, Stephen pointed out a nice patch of grass between two trees where we should plant ourselves for lunch. As we walked toward it, I continued thinking about the absurd sand graveyard. How deep the tombstones must be planted and how many decades of erosion it would take to wash the bodies to sea.

 
Stephen had brought cheese, crackers, salami, gingersnaps, and grapes. I had brought pickles, hummus, carrots, Cheetos, bananas, and iced tea. We made this elaborate spread of the foods and then decided that the Cheetos didn’t quite match the rest of the items in tone. We placed the open bag inside my backpack so the commercial logo and shiny nutrition label didn’t distract from our buffet of natural offerings. Stephen talked about dental school and told funny stories about him and Gus from college. I talked about teaching, and Stephen laughed and consoled at the appropriate times when I told him the story of Helen’s death. Once we’d consumed almost the entire spread, we talked about Alden a bit too.

  “Do you think he knew about the time he spent with your family?” Stephen asked. I had always assumed that he hadn’t. Who would tell their child that sort of thing? Hey, I gave you away for a while, but then I decided you weren’t so awful, so I finagled you back. That’s cool, right? But the way Stephen said it made it seem kind of possible. Maybe Bless Her Heart Barbara had told Alden the truth. Maybe he was estranged from his mother by age sixteen and was handed his entire file from a social worker.

  “I don’t know, Stephen, but I like to think that if he knew, he’d have looked for us. I mean, not expecting to join the family or anything, but to say hello. To say Look, I turned out okay. Thanks for feeding me and snuggling me those first three months.” And after I said those words I got really sad again for my parents. I’m always thinking about the Alden thing as it applies to me. Annie playing Chutes and Ladders alone. Annie watching Care Bears with nine different stuffed animals in her lap. Annie being a shy, awkward preteen because she has no sibling with whom she can socialize. Here I’ve been mourning something I never had while my parents were totally crushed by the loss of something real and precious. A child they loved and fed and snuggled. A child that was as much theirs as I was. Maybe the emptiness I felt over Alden’s being gone wasn’t all for me but comprised partially of actual empathy for my parents? Not just a simple A. Harper Pity Party. Was that possible? Is Miss Harper capable of such semicomplex, not-entirely-selfish emotions? Alden is their story, not mine. I am just a supporting character in a family drama. I’m the child actor who still has time to go to normal school because her role in the movie is that small. My parents went through something huge that I will never fully understand. Everything I’ve gone through has been fake and romanticized. Jesus Christ. I realized I was cussing silently in my head in a cemetery with a friend who I was supposed to be talking to. And so I piped up.